


this is what you think of me

by alwaysyourqueen



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, Gen, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysyourqueen/pseuds/alwaysyourqueen
Summary: In another world, the women of Azeroth have a bit more agency, a bit more love for one another, and a bit more honor. Tyrande learns to live without the druids, Jaina falls in love more than once, and Sylvanas questions who she is after dying.





	1. did you love me too?

**Author's Note:**

> I recently got super back into World of Warcraft, and even more recently I've been replaying Warcraft 3, one of my favorite games from my childhood. The inspiration for this came naturally — I've always loved the female characters, and the idea to give them a bit more say in their story was too good to turn down.

Tyrande Whisperwind had loved Malfurion Stormrage once.

“My love, what can we do against this invasion?” The city of Suramar burned, and they were all that was left to defend the isles on which their home stood. “The demons are relentless, and they keep dropping from the sky. I have as many arrows as I can shoot, but my archers are weary. We cannot keep this up much longer.” She was a young elf, only a couple thousand years old, but old enough to have seen the spread of the empire. Their beloved capital of Suramar had flourished, and they were not strong enough to save it.

Malfurion, her new husband, put a hand comfortingly on Tyrande’s shoulder. “Take heart, beloved, for nature stands at our side and guards us against the onslaught of darkness. Cenarius and Elune herself will fight by our side.” He had not yet begun to grow the traits of the animals he became, but he preferred to channel the magic of Elune into calling nature to his side or to bring down her wrath upon his enemies.

Tyrande pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek, enjoying the sensation for only a moment.

One of her hippogryph-mounted scouts from above shouted, “The next invasion is coming. To arms!” The young elf had short, messily-cut hair, fresh tattoos from her coming-of-age ceremony, and a bow untested by true war. She swung herself around and flew towards the demons, screaming, _”Andu-falah-dor!”_

The druid and the priestess nodded at one another, each retrieving their mounts and charging towards the demon. In this time, they fought as one, bound together by their marriage and their camaraderie. Bolts of Elune’s light shot through the air and pierced demons, skewering them and burning their flesh so they fell limp. Malfurion called down pyramids of sun and moon, the balance of the druidic ways bringing the deaths of the demons. From his staff he curved around and created a crescent of moonlight energy, cutting through the closest felguard.

The wave of demons ended, and the survivors retreated into their camp to heal in the moonwell. Tyrande walked through the battlefield to see who had fallen. The scout who charged in so bravely was half-crushed under the weight of her hippogryph. Tears welled in the priestess’ eyes as she knelt at the scout’s side. “Elune light your way, thero’shan.”

Standing again with a renewed vigor, she returned to her camp and wrapped her arms around Malfurion, her anchor and the one holding her to the ground when she needed. He kept her in the moment, and she needed that during this war.

“Kal, we must stay strong and fight for our people. Val’sharah may fall, but we can create a home for ourselves outside of the demon’s reach.” She brought a hand to his face, pulling back from the hug and stroking his cheek.

Malfurion furrowed his brow. “I think I have an idea, but it will mean great pain to ensure our survival.”

“What is this idea?”

From that discussion, after that battle, came the Sundering. The world was permanently broken, destroyed, and Queen Azshara was sent beneath the sea with most of her court. The remaining kaldorei who wished to live and continue to live were either sheltered within Suramar or traveling to their home of Kalimdor in the west.

* * *

 

The priestesses’ order was established as the government, and the druids had discussed among themselves and made a decision. Moonglade, the northern region of their new continent, became the home of the druids and their barrow dens. Most painfully of all, they were choosing to go underground and fully commit to the Emerald Dream.

“Please, Malfurion, you cannot leave me to care for our people alone. We must build our new world together.” Tyrande had her hand clasped around her husband’s upper arm. “You must not lose yourself to the Dream when our people need you, here.”

“You must understand, my love, that the only way for us to truly master our druidic arts is to sleep in the barrows and unite with the Dream. Our people would best be served to have guardians ready to join you when a new threat arises, or Elune forbid the Legion returns. You must let me do this. If you have great need of me, you may call upon me with the horn of Cenarius.” His brow was furrowed once again, but rather than thoughtfully as when he made his idea that caused the Sundering, this was frustrated and distant. Pushing Tyrande away, whether he meant it or not.

Tyrande released him, stepping away and shaking her head, her gentle teal locks shaking with her and shielding her silvery eyes from his vision. “I cannot stop you. But I choose to remain here, awake, with my people.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have made your choice.”

A last sorrowful look came from the archdruid to his beloved as he entered the barrow, stepping down the long dirt pathway carved away by various druids into a twisting network beneath the ground. He found his way to a bed and shut his eyes, knowing he might never open them again outside of the Dream.

* * *

 

The high priestess of the kaldorei sobbed as she walked back to the temple of Moonglade. She needed Elune’s guidance, needed to have someone to trust in. She could not trust in the counsel of her husband any longer. Mother Moon would be her counsel now.

She entered the temple in the North of Moonglade, hanging over the waters with the soft glow of the energy filling the region. The energy of the Well of Eternity still was with them, in a soft and comforting way. It was a part of them, regardless of what had happened in the time since the Sundering.

“Elune, I need guidance. My people look to me as a leader. I could not stop the druids from descending into their barrows and locking themselves away from the rest of our people. How am I to guide them now? If I cannot convince many of our strongest to stay, how can I convince them that I can lead?”

It was quiet for a while, and despair began to creep in her throat. She wondered if Elune was even listening, or if they had broken their connection to the mother of their kind by destroying the world. She had not asked for guidance in this way since the Sundering. She stepped further in, wading into the water of the moonwell and kneeling down, her robes sticking to her as she did. “Please, Elune. If I never ask you for anything again, I ask now for words of wisdom to help save my people from falling to chaos.”

It was still quiet.

And then the moon above reached its crest, shining its light through the center of the ceiling and filling the moonwell with its light. Standing before her was a figure, elven and matronly and extending its arms towards her. “You are never alone, Tyrande. Look in your heart, and guide your people with your best judgment. You do not need me to choose for you.” The figure stepped towards her, feet hitting the surface of the pool and sending ripples out in wide circles around. It leaned down and pressed a kiss to the priestess’ forehead, and she could not tell if it was physical or merely a vision.

“Be strong, my child, and do not despair when you feel weak, for the night will always protect you.”

As soon as it had appeared, the vision vanished, and Tyrande wiped the tears from her cheeks.


	2. i loved you in the little spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before anything truly went wrong, Jaina and Sylvanas found comfort in one another. Unfortunately, they did not know they would be forever changed before seeing each other again.

Jaina Proudmoore wasn’t always the best of students. She was inquisitive, bright, clever, and something of a hopeless romantic. She snuck out of Dalaran to visit the land of Quel’thalas whenever she could. She was a young, rash woman but she adored visiting the beautiful land of the elves.

Not only did she enjoy that, but she enjoyed quiet moments alone with Ranger-General Sylvanas, another young woman who enjoyed seeing foreign sights. And given she was tasked with protecting her homeland, Jaina was about the most foreign any of her sights got.

A giggle passed between them as Jaina followed Sylvanas into a side room of the nearest open Silvermoon building. The Quel’thalas seasons were lovely and warm, almost never needing to even wear a jacket. The elf tugged the sorceress into her, and she cupped her face between her hands and smiled. “It’s so good to see you.” Jaina’s face was curved into a lovestruck smile, simply looking at the other woman’s face as they fell into their usual habits.

“Sh, I don’t want them to hear.” Sylvanas coaxed the cloak off of Jaina’s shoulders, planting a hot but hurried kiss on the human’s cheek. “We have to make the most of our time before I have to go to the meeting.” She pressed another kiss to Jaina’s nose, somewhat clumsily as it was clear she was aiming for her mouth.

Jaina was glad to be rid of her cloak, allowing her to more freely hold onto the other and run her hands over her upper arms. She leaned in for a proper kiss, and she grabs onto Sylvanas’ arms to steady herself. Her entire body and soul was overwhelmingly enamored by the other woman, and she showed her that by pressing together in this small corner.

Sylvanas leaned into Jaina’s neck, kissing there gently, and then again but this time biting into the skin, leaving a welt of a soft purple and red color. Jaina had to suppress a moan from the contact as a shiver ran down her body.

“Don’t go if you can help it,” Jaina begged in their private whisper, one of her hands reaching to weave fingers through the ranger’s hair. “I want you to stay here with me.”

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. A voice of one of the other rangers came shouting, “Ranger-General? The others are looking for you.” She let out a groaning sigh, grabbing Jaina’s cloak from its place on the floor and returning it to the young sorceress’ shoulders. In a hurried whisper she said, “Shorel’aran, my dear. I’ll see you again soon.” She kissed the other’s forehead and returned her clothing to its prescribed arrangement, heading out and saying in her most professional voice, “Yes, I’m coming, Fandreth. They won’t start without me.”

Jaina was left with her crooked cloak, cheeks still flushed a bright red from the quiet passion. She pulled her hood over her face and adjusted it to hide the hickey left there. She grabbed her staff and brought up the magical field around her, sending her teleporting back to Dalaran.

* * *

 

Once there, she tried to quietly make her way back to her chambers, and not show off the marking to anyone, but in an effort to be quiet and subtle she walked right into another student. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said to the young man, who she’d cleanly knocked to the ground. “Let me help you up, this is so embarrassing.” She extended a helping hand, which he gladly took and stood up.

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t looking where I was- Are you okay? Did you get hurt or something?” he asked, pointing to the now deep purple mark on her neck. “Should I get one of the healers?”

Aaaaand the red face is back. “No, I- No I’m fine. Please don’t mention it. It’ll be gone before long.” She pulled at her hood and went off, her face too hot for her to really do anything but try to get out of the frier.

“Are you-” He seemed to be saying something more, but she had already run off into the building where her room was, barricading herself in the moment she had a chance. A deep breath. She was finally alone. And free to think about Sylvanas again without worrying about people seeing her being embarrassed.

The sorceress dropped her staff and tugged her cloak closer around her. She wrapped herself into the cloak as tightly as possible and sat up against the end of her bed. She buried her face in the hood, taking in the sensory feelings of being in this, and specifically in something that Sylvanas had touched. It was a kind and soft feeling, like she was being held. It was amazing how far she could go in just a day, and how she had a chance to see someone so wonderful when she did. Magic was truly a gift.

* * *

She woke up the next morning, realizing that her comfortable spot had led to her sleeping the rest of her day and the rest of the night away. She wiped at her face, the gunk in her eyes letting her separate her lids again. A wide yawn filled the silence of the room, and she decided to get to her feet. Her back hurt, for sure, and this entire day would probably include aches and pains for sleeping on the floor.

New clothes almost made it seem as if she hadn’t slept on the floor. She dragged a comb through her hair and only snagged five times. Watching her own eyes in the mirror above her vanity, she dropped her comb back on the surface and ran her fingers over the side of her face. She looked a little tired, but it was okay.

Her goal was to go see Antonidas, and see what she was to do today. She grabbed her staff and dusted off her cloak, returning it to her shoulders. She let the hood hang back, forgetting for now about her love mark.

Upon approaching the upper level, she heard another voice and decided to investigate before interrupting. She silently wrote the symbol in the air for invisibility and snuck around the corner.

“You must be wiser than the king! The end is near!” A man dressed in a cloak with raven’s feathers on the shoulders shouted at the Archmage.

Her master, as stoic as ever, responded, “I told you before, I’m not interested in this nonsense.”

“Then I’ve wasted my time here.”

The strange man wrapped his cloak around himself and transformed once again into a raven, lifting himself onto the wind and soaring off over the city. Antonidas furrowed his brow and sighed. Then he turned towards where Jaina was hiding and said, “You can show yourself now, Jaina. He’s gone.”

Dispersing the spell, she felt embarrassed and compelled to say…something. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, master, but-”

Rather than let her finish, Antonidas let out a hearty laugh and stood from his place, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s your inquisitive nature that I’ve come to rely on, child.” He squeezed her shoulder then took his hand back and reached for the staff he had leaning against the wall behind his desk. “That crazed fool’s convinced that the world is about to end.”

He waved his staff through the air and the two of them were teleported into the Violet Citadel, able to walk out onto the main street of Dalaran.

“I’ve heard the rumors of the plague spreading throughout the northlands.” She met eyes with her teacher. “Do you truly believe that the plague is magical in nature?”

“It’s a strong possibility. That’s why I need you to travel there and investigate the matter.” With a clever half-smirk, he added, “I’ve arranged for a special envoy to assist you.”

With a bow, she answered, “Yes, master. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will, child. Farewell.”

Jaina turned to leave, and Antonidas spoke up once more. “One more thing. Perhaps see one of the healers before you go to remove that. And give the Ranger-General my regards when you visit next.”

Brightly red for the third time in a day, she responded, “Of course, master. I’ll be sure to.”

“Travel safely.”


	3. a thousand apologies would not bring you back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas Windrunner defends her home for the last time.

Sylvanas Windrunner loved her homeland. It was why she did not indulge her wanderlust, her desire to explore the world. It was also why she stood here on the front lines, destroying the undead hordes that slowly tore through her countrymen. She sent many elves back home, urging them to go into the inner city of Silvermoon. There they might, _might_ be safe.

Lor’themar, her second in command, she sent to escort civilians to homes. He was the only one she trusted enough to ensure that they would return home.

With his back in the distance, she nocked her arrows. She destroyed the first bridge, firing shots across the water and skewering several of the undead and leaving them in once-again-dead pieces on the ground.

It was there, destroying their first entrance into Quel’thalas, that she first locked her eyes with Arthas’. The sockets were once filled with the eyes of a young prince, an ambitious paladin filled with the Light. Now they were an icy blue, filled with the power of darkness and the magic of the master of the undead. She hated seeing the hatred in his eyes because it felt like it bored into his very soul.

“I see you’ve never fought elves before,” she shouted across the water, a cockiness in her voice faked enough to hold confidence better than what any sane elf would have in this situation. She couldn’t let this Scourge get the better of her.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, desire to keep the Scourge from getting the better of her did not make it so. Despite her best efforts, Arthas and his legion of dead overran the outer gates and then the inner gates. They destroyed the rangers’ base camp and now the death knight stood there, cold eyes and all, looking down on her with a mix of pity, repulsion, and inspiration.

Sylvanas spat at the fallen prince’s feet. “Finish it. I…deserve a clean death.” Her breathing was hard and this was her version of begging. She would refuse to plead, but she would try and get him to finish her as she deserved regardless.

Arthas’ face spread into a smirk. His dead face dropped into a cold, cruel laugh. “After all you've put me through, woman, the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death.” He sent a death coil into her body, and she felt as if she flew a hundred miles. She lifted a hand and looked at her hand and screamed…quite literally like a banshee. She looked over her entire body which currently lay on the ground in front of her. She could not move from where she stood (floated?).

“Now get back in your body and pick up that bow.” The order ran through her spirit like a hot flash, and she was overwhelmed with the power of the Lich King in her mind, ordering her to obey the command given to her by this butcher. For some reason she had a semblance of her mind, but she could not express herself.

She obeyed.

Sylvanas reentered her body, still warm from the recent death, and felt her spirit possess it. She stood again, her body now already greying and the tears she could not remember shedding burned into her face as a scar of her final moments of terror. “What must I do?”

“Lead this battalion to invade Silvermoon. Meet us at the Sunwell when the invasion is completed.” He looked so smug, so ready to abuse the power he now held over her.

There was nothing she could do, so she collected the arrows she now pulled from this otherworldly power possessing her and began to fire them. She led the group of Scourge troops into the city, and had to suffer as she watched her own hands fire arrow after arrow into the hearts of her people. The high elves were slowly being eliminated, and she was an agent in it. Willing or otherwise.

The one she would remember for years after was a woman, no older than Sylvanas herself was. To stop her from running, the dark archer kicked the woman to the ground and stomped as hard as she could on her chest. A sick crack indicated that at least one, probably more, of her ribs.

It took a long time to fire her arrow. The first resistance she had shown in the precious few hours she’d been undead, she held back the bowstring long enough to watch the terror fill the woman’s eyes. The recognition of one of the great defenders of their homeland being the one to execute her. The dark arrow descended into the woman’s skull.

Sylvanas stalked forward to continue the onslaught. She personally entered many of the homes and cut down her people, leaving bodies in beds where they had slept, tables where they ate, and gardens where they grew bloodthistle and other garden herbs.

* * *

The invasion wiped out most of the elves over the course of two days, and Sylvanas personally watched as the remains of Kel’thuzad were resurrected using her people’s power.

Even in death, she felt the wind knocked out of her as the power of the Sunwell was ripped from her, and ripped from all the other elves as well. She tried to breathe before remembering her lungs didn’t need air anymore. She could feel her organs beginning to rot in her, and she remembered that she was dead. This body was hers, but she was a spirit possessing her own corpse. This was not her.

If she was still capable, she would have thrown up on the ground. But there was nothing left in her dead stomach to be thrown up, and her body did not have the capacity to try and expunge something poisoning it anymore. That just made her feel even more sick.

Even if she still had the ability to throw up, it wasn’t as if she’d be able to with the commands of Arthas and his Lich King at her back. They likely wouldn’t let her. She was not going to be allowed to do anything against them until she could break the will holding her. Right now it was too strong, too old for her to do something against. Even as she thought, the crushing fist in her mind demanded that she not think of rebellion.


	4. wake up, the wolves are howling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrande Whisperwind must awaken the druids. What that means is hard to say.

To mourn the death of a demigod is a great burden to bear. Tyrande had to, once again, mourn the death of someone important to her without her husband’s presence. She hardly considered him her husband any longer: the bond they shared ten thousand years ago was merely a thread of the tapestry he had ripped through.

For a few hundred years she descended into his barrow to feel his presence, but each time it hurt her more and more. Eventually she took company with her fellow priestesses, with her archers, with her beloved companions, and with the trees. They comforted her more greatly than Malfurion’s presence had since he left the waking world behind. She sent her sentinels to the trees surrounding all their encampments and took comfort in their protection.

Unfortunately, the Legion returned. And the kaldorei were in desperate need of their old druids. It was vital to their survival. Which meant that Tyrande would have to call upon Malfurion once again, to ensure the lives of their people.

A huntress rode up to Tyrande’s side, followed by her regiment of archers. “Priestess Tyrande, thank Elune we’ve found you. The undead are marching on the barrow dens. The dens seem abandoned, but-”

“There is one druid sleeping within them, sister.” She stopped for a few seconds too long, sighing. There was no other choice. “Malfurion Stormrage. He is the most powerful of all the druids. He must be warned that the Legion has returned.”

The huntress, a woman named Sylanai, responded, “Then we’d better hurry. The undead may overtake his barrow before we can awaken him.”

Tyrande swept herself into the air, landing on the back of Ash’alah, and started riding in the direction of the place where the Horn of Cenarius was kept. She kept Sylanai by her side, the regiment following them on the backs of hippogryphs and nightsabers, keeping mostly to the shadows.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, lady Tyrande? I know how things ended with Malfurion when he went into the barrows.” Sylanai spoke up after a while of riding through the tranquil forest. Ashenvale was always serene, though there was a tension in the air unlike most nights.

The priestess did not have a good response ready, nor was she sure that there <i>was</i> a correct response. “Despite my personal history with him, he is what our people need. We need everyone we can in the fight against the Burning Legion. We need his wisdom and his magic to awaken the druids and drive back the forces that assault our world again.”

Sylanai sighed and continued moving forward, her hand scratching the back of her saber’s neck. “Are you sure we could not look for help elsewhere?”

“We do not have the time to search for the rest of our people, to cross the oceans or to learn to trust the barbarians who cut down our forests from across the sea. I would only side with those who killed Cenarius if they proved they could be trusted. These greenskins have ravaged the land.” Tyrande’s breathing was becoming labored, her purple face turning brighter and more bloodfilled. “I will not stand by while we are attacked by Legion, Horde, and army of pink men. No. We will awaken the druids and put aside our petty squabbles.”

There was nothing for the huntress to say to that, at least not productively. “As you say, priestess.” She merely gripped her nightsaber’s fur more tightly and settled one hand on her glaive. Her silvery eyes focused on the road ahead, the light of the moon plenty for any of them to see the way forward.

For anyone not a child of Elune, this forest would seem a dark and terrible place.

* * *

 

The battle against the guardians of the Horn of Cenarius was furious, horrible. Three sentinels died, and Tyrande sustained enough wounds that she would need to bathe in a moonwell for a while later. Her breath was heavy, but she grasped the item.

What surprised her most was how ordinary it felt at first. She knew Cenarius’ energy was within it, and that his power still stood over the land. She could feel his magic and his soul still within the forest, never dying. But the horn itself was wooden, carved intricately and inladen with magic. The cloth tightly wrapped around the end was soft and easy to carry. The horn as a whole was huge, but it felt so ordinary.

“My lady, we should not wait to blow the horn.”

Tyrande turned and realized she had stood there for several minutes, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship of the horn. Rather than say anything in response, she turned back to it. Lifting it so the end was lofted above her head, she emptied her lungs into the mouthpiece. A strong, vibrant breeze carried the sound through the air.

Throughout Ashenvale — and some say throughout Kalimdor — the music of Cenarius carried. Below the ground, once deep within the Emerald Dream, the druids awoke.

* * *

 

Malfurion Stormrage rose from his resting place in the barrow den, and he heard the commotion above. He grabbed his staff and ascended the steps, ten thousand years having broken away at the stone stairway that connected his resting place to the outside world. Outside, awful ghouls of the undead Scourge destroyed the trees, including a sleeping ancient who was not long for this world.

“The horn has sounded, and I have come as promised! I smell the stench of decay and corruption in our land. That angers me greatly.” He channeled his magic into the air and cried out, “Come forth, you defenders of old! Crush these invaders as you did in ages past!”

A group of trees nearby rose from the ground, tugging their roots out from the earth and turning them into legs, breaking branches into arms and faces peeking out from the bark. They roared an inhuman roar and made their way for the ghoulish creatures, swinging with sharp branches and blunt force of nature’s magic. With the corpses returned to just that — corpses — the druid stood down.

In the time it had taken Malfurion to rise, to emerge from the den, and to defend himself, Tyrande and her sentinels had ridden from the keeping place of the horn to nearby. They heard his mighty shouts and entered the clearing where the entrance to his den was.

Malfurion, with a wide and relieved smile upon his face, approached Tyrande. “It has been ten thousand years since I last looked up you, Tyrande.  I thought of you every moment I roamed through the Emerald Dream.”

She was less eager for this reunion. “I am flattered by the care you show for me. I awoke you because of a threat to our lands, nothing more.” Her eyes were cold, despite their ambery-silver hue that normally exuded warmth and care. Right now, she was doing her duty to her people. This wasn’t something she wanted to rush, and after 10,000 years she felt none of the love she’d once held for Malfurion.

And who was to blame for that?

His smile fell, and he turned to begin towards Winterspring, where many of the other barrow dens resided. He need not say anything. His speed on foot was enough that the sabers could trot, and he would keep stride.

“In the Dream, I felt our land being corrupted, just as if it were my own body.  You were right to awaken me,” he finally said, after nearly an hour of riding quietly together.

“Cenarius is dead.” That was all that she could bring herself to say. The ride was taking a toll on her, but they could not afford to stop so she could sleep in a moonwell for a while to recover from the wounds.

Malfurion was forced to be quiet for a while. “Did Archimonde kill him, finally, after failing ten thousand years ago?”

“It was a cursed greenskin man from the other side of the world who absorbed the power of the demons and used it to desecrate Ashenvale. There is a scar across the land from where they struck after Cenarius’ passing.” Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke, being forced to remember the horrors she’d seen in the past days. “The trees cry out and there is nothing we can do.”

For the first time in ten thousand years, Tyrande wished she had been the one to sleep away the ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for the positive reception of this fic so far! Feedback, suggestions, and kudos always welcome! I'll be posting more chapters whenever I finish them, so it will be sporadic but hopefully at least once a week.


	5. here, at the end of all things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle against the Legion requires patience, fortitude, and strength of will. Luckily, Jaina Proudmoore has these virtues in droves.

The battle for the entire world had come to a head, and Jaina stood at the base of Mount Hyjal. It was the center of the world, and she shook in her shoes as she watched the demon armies climb to Nordrassil to rip it apart. She had teleported in at the last second to speak with Warchief Thrall, Priestess Tyrande, and Archdruid Stormrage.

She had seen for herself as Archimonde had made his way towards the summit, waltzing through the world and utterly destroying all in his path. He was of such immense power she could barely fathom it. “I'm sorry I'm late. It's just as we feared. Archimonde and his doom guard are making their way towards the summit. He'll be here any moment.”

Tension between this small war council was far too thick, and it was only broken when Malfurion offered his idea. Once again, offering the hardest choice for the safety of the world.

“Ten thousand years ago we night elves defeated the Burning Legion. Though the rest of the world was shattered, we were left free to live out our immortal lives in peace, bound to the World Tree. We are its protectors, and through it we were granted immortality and power over nature. Now, at last, it is time we gave that power back.” This mini speech created a pause in both Thrall and Jaina. Neither could fathom their own species back ten thousand years, much less have remembered as such. Jaina herself could hardly imagine ten years in the future. Right now it was about saving everyone in the here and now.

Tyrande, however, cried out in protest. “You realize that we will age as these mortals do. Our powers will wane in time. We will lose ourselves to the ages and be unprepared when another threat looms over s.”

Afterwards, Jaina would have thought Malfurion was about to tell Tyrande he loved her. The fire in her eyes was admirable, the sorceress thought, and she seemed like in general a woman to be looked up to.

“If pride gives us pause, then perhaps we have lived long enough already. I will proceed to the summit and prepare our defense there.” Without leaving time for another word, he charged off, with druids flanking him in their offensive forms. Jaina felt the magic in the air as he settled into the ritual spell that would channel the collective spirits of the night elven people into Nordrassil, to save her.

A spark of inspiration struck Jaina, and she approached the priestess. “If you can provide our bases with support and keep us from being overwhelmed, Thrall and I will delay Archimonde's ascent! If everything rests on this, we should do all we can to support Stormrage.”

Her heart beat several beats faster when responded to. “Your plan is a bold one, girl. Perhaps I have misjudged you outlanders.”

“We’re more than the brutes we must seem to be to you.” She turned to go back towards the human encampment, where she saw the troops already lining up in formations. “Azeroth is our home too. We’ll do anything we can to protect it.” And you, she added in her mind after the fact. It was what she would have said if Tyrande hadn’t tried to kill her mere hours ago.

“May Elune shine upon you.”

Jaina returned to her countrymen, shouting orders for them to start getting ready for the assault on Archimonde. She knew full well this was almost definitely a suicide mission. Fighting against the leader of the demon army? Foolhardy. But it was that or await the death of the world.

Her speech to the men finished and she raised her staff in the air, shouting as much as her lungs would let her, “For Lordaeron! For those who died in the Scourge’s wake! For Azeroth!”

The demon army crested the hill, the footmen put their shields up, and the siege engines began barraging the assaulting demon army. Jaina summoned as many elementals as her body could allow. She continuously pelted the demons with shards of ice cascading from the sky. She shouted when her army needed the will to fight on. Her command over frost was unmatched, but that didn’t stop Archimonde’s forces from making their way through her base.

Finally, her forces were all but completely slaughtered, and the demons were destroying the few buildings they’d managed to erect. The barracks came crashing down and Jaina was face to face with Archimonde, the destroyer of worlds.

His booming voice called down to her, seeming overconfident to her. “You are very brave to stand against me, little human. If only your countrymen had been as bold, I would have had more fun scouring your wretched nations from the world!”

Jaina, with enough fake bravado to cover the fact that her entire body shook and she was slightly struggling to prepare her spell, shouted back, “Is talking all you demons do?” Before Archimonde has a chance to respond, the spell carries her and whatever wounded left alive out and back to Thrall’s base, joining the orcs in their preparations.

* * *

 

She approached the Warchief, her chest finally exhaling with relief. “Thrall, Archimonde will be upon you at any moment. How much longer do we need to protect Malfurion?”

Thrall looked at her, then up at the base of the tree where he knew Malfurion to be. “I wish I knew. The spirits tell me we have enough time, but I don’t want to take any chances.” A long few seconds went by as the two of them gazed at the world tree, the lifeblood of their planet. “If all we orcs do with our freedom is protect others from Archimonde, it will be a life well spent.”

“I doubt this is the end, Thrall.” She awkwardly raised a hand up to place on his shoulder. “Fate is almost never that cruel.”

The orc turned back to her, gently patting Jaina on the back. Despite not being the most physically impressive orc, it was likely that he would just push her over if he was too forceful. She was young and small. “I appreciate it, my friend.”

The two of them walked together out to the orc forces barricaded into the entrance to their base. Once again, the demons approached in hordes and began to be cut down by the catapults, wind riders, axes, wolf riders, and everything else in the army. Orcish blood spilled over the grass, red and green staining the grass of the hillside.

Jaina stood near the back of the base, ready to teleport out the moment Thrall was overwhelmed. The spell kept at half-cast. She wouldn’t let her new ally fall before the demon army.

She watched as the orcs, just as her army, were slowly but surely overtaken by the demons. Archimonde himself stomped on the first burrow, crushing the orcs within. The defenders fell back, but many were ripped apart by various demons.

“You Orcs are weak and hardly worth the effort! I wonder why Mannoroth even bothered with you!” Archimonde bellowed, and Jaina could not hear enough to hear Thrall’s response.

Instead, she cast her spell, and the few survivors of orcs, humans, and trolls were teleported to the rudimentary night elven encampment at the base of Nordrassil. There, she approached Tyrande, who stood with many others healing the wounded.

“Tyrande, are we ready to drive them back? We’ve done all we can.”

“That is up to Malfurion.”


	6. there are heartbeats in these bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas is freed from the Lich King, and days later she has begun her true struggle with her new life, if you can even call it that. Varimathras offers her a deal, and she chooses herself.

Sylvanas had been dead for some time now, and she still felt disgusted in her body. Her spirit was driven to stay in this body by some unholy power, and the dysphoria of existing as a being that should not exist haunted her every day. The blighted ground beneath her camp sent chills through her dead nerves, but they may as well have been heat waves. No beating heart, no body heat.

The lack of heat didn’t bother her. She wasn’t in Quel’thalas anymore, so of course she wouldn’t feel warm. But there was just…nothing. She couldn’t feel aching in her bones, nor could she feel the slow build to a crescendo of her heart when she was in action. She was cold through and through.

“You seem troubled, mistress.” One of her newly liberated banshee sisters called out to her, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned and looked over the decrepit form she knew she shared under the flesh of her slowed-to-a-halt-rotting corpse.

“Aren’t you, sister?” she asked, voice almost trembling and echoing in the way that a banshee’s voice always did. “Only days ago we were the Lich King’s slaves. We existed…only to slaughter in his name.

“And now we are free.”

“I don’t understand, mistress. I thought you’d be overjoyed.” The genuine concern that could form on a spirit’s face was almost surprising. Without the power of the Lich King over them, their individuality sprouted once more.

Sylvanas sighed and turned from her sister. “What joy is there in this curse? We are still undead, sister. Still monstrosities.” Her even tone was building to a scream, a horrifying curse that echoed through the war camp. “What are we if not slaves to this torment?”

Her banshee sister nearly responded, but before she had the chance the telltale sound of a Legion portal opening and all idea of talking about anything except business vanished.

Through the oval that formed in the air, the familiar form of Varimathras stepped through. A huge demon lord of the Burning Legion, plated in red and black and standing menacingly over the small, still elven, banshee forms. His voice echoed with a power beyond the world of Azeroth, and what he said caused Sylvanas to frown.

“Greetings, Lady Sylvanas. My brothers and I appreciate the role you played in overthrowing Arthas. I've come to offer you a formal invitation to join our new order.” It was too sweet a deal from a demon lord, too kind. The way in which he spoke was as if to a friend, yet still in that horrid booming voice.

The former ranger scoffed. “Varimathras.” The word dripped like acid from her mouth, the bile holding still in her veins almost physically seeping from her tongue. “My only interest was in seeing Arthas dead. I have no time for your petty politics or power mongering.”

“Careful, milady. It would be unwise to incur our wrath. We are the future of these,” he gestured to the blighted ground around them, “Plaguelands. You can either join us and rule…or be cast aside.”

Raising her bow and pointing it at Varimathras’ throat, she spat, “I lived as a slave long enough, dreadlord. I won’t relinquish my freedom by shackling myself to you fools!”

With a shrug, Varimathras steps back to his portal. “So be it. Our reply will come soon.” And with another quick step, the portal closed, leaving the banshees once again alone in their camp.

“This means we have little time before a demonic assault from all sides, mistress. What must I do?”

Sylvanas cursed the name of every demon she knew before responding, her mouth running in both the humans’ Common and her natural Thalassian. The words melded together in such a way it might have been poetic — if not for the nature of their meaning. “Collect the meat wagons and fill them with corpses, line the camps. I need a party of ghouls, necromancers, banshees, and as many abominations as we can put together in the next two hours. We need more allies if we are to counter the demon’s assault.”

“Of course, mistress.” The banshee rose several feet before making back off into the camp.

The dark ranger, the current only one of her kind, started parading through camp. She watched as corpses stored for later use were forced up and onto their feet, with all the autonomy they could desire without the control of the Lich King. Her necromancers came out of the quickly built blighted stronghold, using the more decomposed corpses as tools for crafting new abominations.

Each stitch that went together in the abomination was both fascinating and utterly disgusting. At the end, they were hideous amalgamations of former Scourge, former elves, and former humans. No one would recognize any individual piece now.

With her collection of troops, Sylvanas began to traipse into the wilds of Lordaeron. She sent banshees ahead to scout, hiding with their ghastly forms and reporting to her before she led her mismatched troops ahead. A forward party of Legion demons found them on their way, and Sylvanas led the charge directly into their ranks.

It was only footsoldiers, low ranking demons and expendable ones at that. Two her banshees possessed, bringing her demonic soldiers for until they expelled the cursed ghosts. When they had cut down all but one lone imp, Sylvanas gave the order to halt.

The ground was red and green with demon blood. It was burned, covered in the poison from her black arrows. The land was sickening just from the death and fire that covered it. The imp cowered in terror, surrounded by huge creatures it could not hope to defeat.

The dark ranger reached down and lifted the imp up by the back of its neck. “Listen well, little imp. Return to your masters, and tell Varimathras that the forsaken undead will never bow again to any master. Not even him.” Then she dropped it, letting it make a terrible noise as it impacted the ground.

“Yes, of course, right away,” it said as it scurried back off in the direction it had come, as rapidly as it could manage on its disgusting little feet.

“Mistress, why did you let it go?” asked one of the felguards who her banshee companion had possessed.

“Simple.” Sylvanas began retrieving her arrows, returning them to the quiver on her back. “I cannot earn the respect of the Legion until I am a threat. I am telling Varimathras that I am a threat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT mean to leave this fic un-updated for so long, but here it is, finally. I AM still planning to continue this fic, so thank you to everyone with the patience for my inconsistent update schedule.


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